


Open Season

by tea_petty



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Master/Servant, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 15:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_petty/pseuds/tea_petty
Summary: Pickman's got uses for the Sole Survivor's skills.





	Open Season

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr; tea-petty

His finger crooked upwards, folding mechanically and precisely, beckoning him forward. The apprehension that kept Sole anchored where he sat folded, uprooted enough for him to obey, but remained planted at the pit of his stomach. Fear, as it turned out, needed no sunlight or water to flourish. The nightmarish endeavors of the handsome man before Sole provided plenty of readily available terror fodder.

The smile nestled in the neatly groomed beard was gentle, contrasting bizarrely with the russet droplets that spattered the pressed collar of his dress shirt. He was careful not to smile with teeth, Sole noted as he approached the man still, perhaps because it would catch the glean of the blade, he wiped clean?

“You mustn’t worry Killer,” Pickman soothed, “we’re on the same side.”

Sole stared mutely back, not realizing the disgust that must’ve been embossed on his face until he felt himself consciously release the tension in his brow.

“You saved me,” Pickman continued, setting down the now clean knife on the quaint table beside him. 

It was wood, like most everything in his house – the other furniture, the trim, and of course, the shrine to his art, a deeper red-brown than the rest of the oak furnishings. Blood dyed as effectively as wood finish, as it turned out.

Sole’s eyes flicked back up to meet Pickman’s gaze – serene, and void of any ulterior urges. 

“Do you know what that means?”

Sole opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He shook his head.

“We’re bound,” Pickman said in a voice that trailed off into a purr, “by blood. And not by our own.”

He smiled, and Sole felt hollow very suddenly. As if everything inside him drained away like rainwater down a sewer grate. Sole had been right – his teeth were eerily white for a wastelander and glinted menacingly even in the dim lighting.

“What say we keep it that way?”

-

One, two, three – _heave_.

Sole sucked in a sharp breath before wrenching the hooked grip he had on the underarms of the raider who had been foolish enough to cross him, upwards, and dragging him a couple of steps. Even being the practiced, in-shape man, he was, Sole struggled to support the stocky raider’s deadweight for long, and so it was rinse and repeat. Count, breathe, heave, for the entire distance back home.

Letting the raider’s body slump against the edges of the front steps, Sole fumbled around for the key, patting down his pockets to feel for the telltale ridges. When he found none, he raised his knuckle to rap against the door – his housemate would be smug no doubt – and so it was not without halfhearted grumbles under his breath, that Sole tried to prepare himself for the ‘I-told-you-so’ on Pickman’s face.

He didn’t so much as graze the wood of the door, before it swung open, anticipatory. The first few times Pickman had done this, Sole had been startled, but by now, he was used to it. It made him restless when Sole went out hunting. Or perhaps eager was the better word.

Sole turned back to his captive, easing his fingers beneath the raider’s shoulders once again to hoist him up the steps. This time, Pickman was there to help, and so with minimal difficulty, the two men got the unconscious raider inside.

Once in Pickman’s studio, they set the body down, and stepped back to admire Sole’s handiwork. A brute of a man, with a crudely styled mohawk, and leathers that were all but bursting at the seams to contain the man inside them, it was the small skull tattoo on his neck that brought a broad smile to Pickman’s face.

“The infamous ‘Nice Guy’?”

Sole shrugged, looking abashedly to the ground, and rubbing the back of his neck. Heat prickled at his face under Pickman’s proud stare.

“I mean, he seemed like an obvious target considering everything he’s done. Not to mention, he walked _right_ into the trap…”

Pickman let out a pleased noise.

“Perfect. I couldn’t have done better. You’re absolutely God-sent, Killer.”

A new wave of heat suffused Sole’s face at the compliment, and he grunted in response. By now, Nice Guy had started to stir, and Sole noticed the smallest, fluttered movement at his face. The twitch of the eyelids before they fully gained consciousness. It never really got old.

Both Pickman and Sole were unfazed by this. In fact, the former seemed almost giddy. They were more fun when they woke up early, in Pickman’s opinion. More to play with. More of a fight, and that created more…complex pieces.

Not to mention, both his hands and feet were bound in an expert knot that Sole had double secured, and then double checked. There was little that could be done for him now.

From that angle, with the elaborate rope knots, Nice Guy almost did look like a present, with two neatly tied bows to boot. 

He supposed it was as good as anything else he could’ve gotten Pickman; given the guy’s notoriety and all.

“Good catch,” Pickman praised again, and Sole glowed.

The artist reached over to give Sole’s shoulder a firm squeeze, and warmth trickled down from the point of touch, making Sole glow.

“There’s a good man,” Pickman murmured, his voice soft and tender in all the right places, “why don’t you get yourself cleaned up, and then when I finish, we can have dinner together. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Sole answered tranquilly, “I really would.”

“Excellent.”

Today had been a good day.


End file.
